


Remote

by yehetmeup



Series: GOT7 Colors Series [5]
Category: GOT7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehetmeup/pseuds/yehetmeup
Summary: Feeling overwhelmed by the busyness of the city you book a weekend getaway by yourself to a remote island in the San Juans for some peace and quiet. Strolls on the chilly beaches, perusing the quaint local bookstore, quiet breakfasts alone; all are things you’re looking forward to. Until you meet a handsome man on the ferry and decide to throw out all your plans. Color: blue.





	Remote

The October wind whips your hair into your face as you walk up the steps to the top deck of the ferry. It’s freezing now that it’s turning into evening. 

No one else is out here but you and the thought makes you smile. You don’t mind that the wind is blowing in every direction and a light rain has started to fall. With a glance back at the main passenger cabin you see a few families getting set up at the tables inside. 

Couples are finding adjoining seats to lean together for the three and a half hour ride. A few lone souls are seated with books or cups of coffee, preparing for the evening.

Despite the weather you refuse to break your tradition of standing on the back deck whenever the ferry takes off. You’re disinterested in watching the city you’ve come from, always preferring to look instead at where the ship will take you. 

You pull your wayward hair behind your ears and consider pulling it back with a hair tie for a moment before dismissing the idea and letting it free. The railing is shockingly cold beneath your palms so you slip your sweater down over your wrists before resuming your post.

The twilight blue of the night sky makes the land around Seattle take on a mystical glow. It’s this frantic city you’re so desperately escaping this Friday evening. Too many people, pushing and shoving and existing near you had started to make you feel trapped.

With a groan you’d looked up from your desk at lunch time, taking in the hustle and bustle of the busy crowds, and decided you needed a weekend off. Somewhere quiet where you could hear yourself think and feel yourself move without dozens of people in your personal space.

Your family had taken trips to the San Juans several summers growing up. A slice of heaven only a short ferry ride away. Homey boardwalks with cute little shops selling driftwood art or stained glass creations. Ice cream shops, staffed by friendly married couples who retired to the islands. Local bookstores with small selections that felt like a relief after rows upon rows of selections in the stores on the mainland.

Pulling up google you’d found a small bed and breakfast on Whitman Island. You’d never heard of it before, but Wikipedia listed the local population at 765. Perfect, you’d thought and booked two nights. A quiet weekend getaway with nothing to do but write and explore the town and walk on the (hopefully) deserted beach. 

You’d dashed the few blocks home from work to your apartment to fill a small bag with a few clothes, toiletries, and your notebook. One of the benefits of living downtown was that the ferry terminal was just a few blocks away. The six o’clock ferry was easy to board as a walk-on. 

The loud horn of the ship makes you flinch and you laugh to yourself. You see the dark water churn below as the ship starts to make it’s way out from port. 

With a deep breath you feel yourself start to relax already, as if you were leaving all your worries and cares behind for good, instead of just a weekend. Normally this trip is only made once a day, in the morning, but it looks like popularity had caused them to add a once-weekly Friday night trip as well and you were thankful they had.

Two families with kids brave the cold to come out and join you on the deck for take off and you give them a small smile as they squeal excitedly. 

They abandon their post after a few minutes, slowly trickling back inside leaving you once again alone out in the almost complete dark. Well, almost alone. A movement in your periphery startles you and you turn your head to see a man standing at the other end of the deck. 

His thick, long wool black jacket and shock of black hair make him nearly blend into the night. He’s not looking at you, but straight ahead at the landscapes moving by quickly, now that the ferry is up to it’s fully speed. A messenger bag is slung over his shoulder and a long black notebook is held protectively in his hands as his shrewd gaze, framed by strong brows, takes in the scenery.

He turns around to look back at the ferry itself, lit up by warm yellow beams casting their glow out into the night. He’s devastatingly handsome, you admit to yourself, before turning your attention back to the water ahead of you. Before you lose consistent service you pull out your phone and text your best friend and your mom about the trip, just to give them a heads up.

Both reply within minutes, telling you they hope you enjoy yourself. You smirk, feeling the concern that underlies both of their messages. You can practically hear them, worrying about how little you go out. How single you are. How long it’s been since you dated anyone. 

You sigh and roll your eyes before lifting them skyward.

The ferry is almost far enough past the city for you to really be able to see the stars, but the little taste you can see past the light pollution is a balm to your soul. 

Is it really such a crime that you prefer the quiet? You enjoy simple pleasures like a good cup of tea in the morning, an evening spent with your laptop toying around with the beginnings of your next novel, and a nice stroll through the city on early Sunday mornings when it’s blessedly quiet.

It’s not that you hate company. On the contrary, you love your colleagues in the publishing world and relish the work that you do. You and your best friend passionately spend your lunches talking about the latest books you’re representing. 

But when the day is done, you want your time to yourself. And that, apparently, is a fate worse than death according to your mother, you think with an amused sigh.

‘I didn’t think anyone else would be crazy enough to be out here,’ comes a low male voice, shouted to be heard over the noise of the wind and the churning waters of the Puget Sound.

You turn around at the sound, battling the wind and your hair to look at the handsome man. Up close he’s even more stunning, his lips tugged up into an friendly smile, his deep eyes meeting yours with a spark.

'I never miss the chance to be out here,’ you reply loudly over the wind, returning his smile. 'Crazy is definitely the word for it.’ With a shrug you wrap your arms around your chest against a surge of icy drizzle.

He tucks the notebook he’s holding inside the fold of his jacket and flips up his collar against the rain. 'Want to grab a cup of coffee?’ he asks with a motion of his head back to the appealing warmth of the indoor cabin.

You nod and lead the way back inside. When you’re halfway across the deck a huge surge of wind almost knocks you sideways. You’d forgotten how tempestuous the storms out on the Sound can get. 

You stumble a step and collide with the man next to you who’s also trying to find his footing in the gale. His warm eyes are crinkled as he laughs and tries to right himself. His hand finds yours and you both steady yourselves and hurry inside, bodies jostling each other in the rain.

The two of you emerge into the bright main area with a relieved sigh. You pull your hair back and twirl it around your finger, throwing it over your shoulder to see clearly. He’s shaking droplets of water from his hair, huffing out a laugh.

'Well, that escalated quickly,’ he quips, pointing over to an empty booth facing out to the water with a raise of his brows.

You nod and follow him, taking off your overcoat and laying it on the bench to dry along with your bag before sitting on the bench with a sigh. He follows your motions, dropping his notebook onto the table as he slides into the seat opposite you.

'So how do you take your coffee?’ he asks, pulling a wallet from his back pocket.

'Oh, you don’t have to buy it for me, I can-’ you start but he waves you off and stands up again.

'It’s my treat, please,’ he replies, his tone decisive, his eyes bright and daring you to challenge him.

'All right then, thank you’ you concede with a laugh. 'Cream and two sugars please.’

'Coming right up,’ he says, tapping his wallet to the table before walking off to the small cafe on-board the ship.

When he disappears around the corner you turn, resting your elbow on the window ledge, watching the seas and the night sky with interest. Something unwinds within you as you take in the wild weather and the raw cliffs of the small, uninhabited islands the ship passes. You feel the stress and anxiety drain from you the farther you get from the city.

He returns after another minute, setting two steaming to-go cups of coffee on the table and sliding back into the booth. After offering him another thanks and a warm smile the two of you settle in to drink your coffees in amiable silence, watching the world pass by out the window. 

You do your best to keep your attention off of him but eventually give up and let yourself notice him. The warm-looking grey knit sweater he’s wearing. His thick, long lashes. The mysterious notebook on the table. You wonder if he’s perhaps an artist, coming to the island to find inspiration.

'So what brings you to Whitman island?’ he asks before taking another sip, turning to you.

It occurs to you that you’re a woman traveling alone to a remote island, and you consider for a moment telling him that you’re meeting family or a lover. 

But the way he asks is friendly and not pushy, and you find none of the warning in your gut that you can always trust to tell you when something isn’t quite right. So instead you take another sip and figure out how to word it, eventually just settling on the most straightforward.

'Just taking a weekend to get away from the city,’ you eventually reply with a shrug.

He nods, reaching out a hand to tap a finger to his notebook. 'Same. I’ve been so slammed at work I’ve been too drained to make anything that I want to.’

'Are you a writer? An artist?’ you ask. Perhaps far too eagerly, you think as he lifts an eye and smirks at you.

'Graphic designer by day, artist by night,’ he says in dramatic voice that draws a laugh from you.

'I’m a writer myself. Makes sense that the two crazy people out on the deck are both artists,’ you reply. 'What kind of art do you make?’

'Mostly charcoal,’ he says, pursing his lips in consideration. 'I’ve tried my hand at water colors and some other mediums. But the rough, dark lines of charcoal always feel the most natural to me.’

Your eyes dart back down to his sketchbook, your curiosity rising. For a moment you think about asking him if you can see some of his work, but immediately rule it out as too presumptuous and private.

As if sensing your question he speaks again. 'I’d be happy to show you some of my work.’

'If I can read some of your writing, that is,’ he continues with a grin.

Your eyes go wide at the challenge. You normally don’t let anyone read what you’re working on except for your editor and your best friend. The first novel you published was well received and you’re excited to have time to find inspiration for the next.

'I’m not really sure it would be up your alley,’ you laugh.

'And why is that?’ he counters in mock offense, drawing his hand to his chest dramatically.

'It’s a romance,’ you answer with a grin.

'Are you seriously telling me that you think someone who has a soft spot for charcoals isn’t a romantic?’ he rebuts with a smirk, his deep brown eyes fixing on you over this rim of his coffee.

'Okay, you got me there,’ you say, reaching a finger down to hook in the back of your shoes. 

You slip out of them and fold your legs underneath you, desperately willing warmth back into your frozen toes. 'I haven’t written much yet, I mostly just have an outline though. Sorry to disappoint.’

'Don’t worry, I’m a patient man,’ he replies, quirking up one of his brows. 'I can’t wait to read some.’

Your cheeks heat in response, at the implication that he’ll be around by the time you’ll have written something. True, the two of you are going to a small island and it would be incredibly easy to run into each other this weekend. Even easier if you plan to meet, you think with a small smile. But there’s at least another two and a half hours of this ferry ride, so you’re in no rush.

He acquiesces 'for now,’ to show you his work on the promise that he can read yours as soon as you have a sizable chunk. You lean your heads together as he flips through his sketchbook. He’s incredible, you can tell right away. Portraits, landscapes, abstracts; everything he creates is infused with his unique style. Raw, blunt lines, somehow rendered sweeping and cohesive by his blending.

You mention an exhibit you saw last year at the Seattle Art Museum, an artist you can’t quite remember the name of, who also works primarily in charcoal. He immediately lights up in recognition, telling you the artist is a friend, and the conversation flows easily into discussions of your favorite artists in the Seattle area.

All too soon the horn for the ferry blows and you realize it’s nine thirty and time to dock on Whitman Island. You lean back up, just now noticing how close the two of you had been over the table while you spoke. The distance between your hand and his on the smooth surface of the table is easily less than an inch, you notice with a flush as you quickly pull it back so you can slip on your shoes.

'Time to go already?’ he echoes your thoughts as he grabs his coat and shrugs it back on.

'Yeah, wow. That went by insanely fast,’ you say softly with a shake of your head as you throw on your coat and grab your bag.

'So, where are you staying?’ he asks with a furrow of his brow, motioning you to go ahead of him to make your way to the dock that is fast approaching, lit up through the inky black night.

'Why?’ you ask, perplexed. Yes, there’s obviously an attraction between you two, but he can’t seriously think you’re going to take him to bed tonight.

He laughs and rests his hand on your waist while you walk, leaning down to speak close to you. 'It’s late. I want to make sure you get safely to where you’re staying,’ he says in a low voice that sends heat down your spine. 

'My intentions are pure, I promise,’ he says with a grin, leaning up and putting his hands in the air in mock defense.

You laugh, tilting your head back. When you look over you meet his eyes and feel something inside you melt, something frozen and solid you weren’t aware of until this moment. Even after a full day of work and a long evening of travel your insides feel electric at his nearness. 

'It’s the Country Inn Bed and Breakfast,’ you answer, pulling out your phone to open your email and find the address.

When you meet his eyes again he’s closed his own for a moment and a wry smile is gracing his full lips. He holds open the heavy door out to the walkway off the ferry for you and joins you a moment later. 

'Well, that will be very easy, since that’s also where I’m staying,’ he supplies with a laugh.

'Perfect,’ you say, meeting his gaze.

Your hands brush against each other as the two of you walk together down the narrow ramp to the pier. Without a trace of awkwardness he gently slides his palm against yours and you clasp your hand in his. 

This was supposed to be a solo getaway from the crowds, you think. But looking at the adorable way the wind throws his hair across his forehead you find you don’t mind in the least. You’re willing to make an exception for him.


End file.
